


Twenty-Six Point Eight Percent

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Coda, Community: lewis_challenge, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e01 The Dead of Winter, Episode: s04e02 Dark Matter, Gen, Lewis Summer Challenge 2016, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, description of attempted suicide, reference to past child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet of the streets does nothing to ease the tempest in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Six Point Eight Percent

**Author's Note:**

> A coda for both Dark Matter and The Dead of Winter. Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge at the lewis_challenge LiveJournal community. Inspired by Guinevere81's [prompt](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/147961.html?thread=1296377#t1296377).
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Jack for the Britpick and beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

_Dark matter comprises 26.8% of the mass and energy in the observable universe._

_______  
  


The quiet of the streets does nothing to ease the tempest in his head. His ears are still ringing from the shot and Lewis, walking next to him, sounds as if he’s talking down a tunnel, drowned out by the slow motion replay.

_Mrs Temple bringing the shotgun up to her chin again. The echo of his own shout. The crack of the shot so close to his face, catching her in the side of the neck, not the throat. The impact as his momentum carries them both to the floor. The split second before he regains his breath when he thinks he's been hit as well. And then Mrs Temple, as blood wells up through her smock, sobbing that she wanted to go, she was ready to go._

One more tragic scene to add to the scores of tragic scenes he’s amassed over the years. He should be inured to it by now, have a handle on this particular brand of awful, not so shaken by ghosts of twenty years ago he’s hardly aware of where he’s walking. And it’s typical isn’t it? Of his life, of his brain, that this is what gets its teeth into him. That this frustrated domestic tragedy brings him to his metaphorical knees in a way being confronted head-on with the lurking ghosts of Crevecoeur hadn’t. He’d been prepared for that. As prepared as he ever could be, shored up his defenses the moment he heard the name. But all that energy spent defending against the one thing didn’t leave sufficient reserves for anything else. He wasn’t prepared for Mrs Temple in the shooting range with a shotgun. Wasn’t prepared for the distorted mirror image of things witnessed by his twelve year old self.

James stops at the corner, pulls a cigarette out of his rumpled pack and lights it. He tilts his head skyward as he inhales, blows smoke up into the night. The nicotine has no effect on the tempest either.

Lewis carries on a few steps before he notices James has stopped then returns to stand beside him.

“We missed it again,” James says, nodding toward the sky. His voice sounds almost normal. Lewis gives him a thoughtful look, waiting for him to elaborate. “Venus. Set while we were… with Mrs Temple.”

“Suppose there’s some sort of poetic meaning in all that.”

There must be, but James can’t see it tonight. The sky is starting to cloud over anyway, and there’s definitely meaning in that. He shrugs, takes another drag of his cigarette, then shakes his head and starts walking again.

Lewis falls into step, picking up where he left off: some story about Morse. Wagner always leads to Morse. It’s the sort of story that needs no response and James is grateful for it. When he concentrates on Lewis’ voice he can block out just about everything else; soothing Northern vowels filling the silence as Lewis leads them a meandering path through the streets. 

He hesitates when they arrive at Lewis’ flat. For a moment he thinks to resist, to turn around and head toward his own flat. Get home, get a drink, and a drink, and a drink until he can’t feel it anymore and sleep takes over. But the moment is fleeting and he doesn’t have the energy to catch it.

Inside Lewis deposits his suit jacket on a kitchen chair, gets down the good whisky, and prepares two glasses. He places one on the coffee table in front of James’ usual spot in the corner of the sofa.

James is still stood just inside the door. He forces himself to move forward into the room, to sit down next to Lewis. He downs his drink in one go, earning a somewhat troubled look. It's no way to drink whisky this good, hardly tasting it. Lewis sips his own whisky and doesn’t comment.

He was actually fine after the Black case, for certain values of fine. Passably fine. Tolerably fine. A shot in the arm but a minor setback. Lewis didn’t ask and James didn’t tell and that was also fine. That was the way these things go. Are meant to go. Must go. But this night has scraped his edges raw again, fractured some vital piece of the foundations.

His weakness always sneaks up on him. Every time he thinks he's got a handle on it, got it bottled up and tied down, this time for sure, it finds its way through some new fissure. Intellectually, he’s aware there is only so much one person can take, that pushed long enough and hard enough everyone reaches a breaking point; he’s seen it play out on the streets of Oxford countless times. But he’s always held himself to a higher standard. He needs to be better. He has to. He needs to stay above this, not let it drag him down, because if it does it may take a long time for him to get up again.

Don’t talk about it. Don’t tell. That was the first tenet of life at Crevecoeur, instilled in him so early and so completely that he’s never quite got out from under it. And he can’t even begin to explain tonight without letting slip some of the rest. Lewis has that ‘waiting out a difficult witness’ look on his face: kind but determined. Ready to listen and prepared to wait all night. James can wait too.

When Lewis finishes his drink he pours them each another. James doesn’t drink his all at once this time but it’s a near thing. He pours himself more, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he leans back against the cushions again.

Halfway through his fourth glass it hits him how bad an idea this is, sitting here in the familiar comfort of Lewis’ sofa and Lewis’ presence at his side. Against all better judgment James has come to take this for granted, a sure sign that he should never have walked through the door tonight. The longer he sits here the more it feels like he might be safe, but safe isn’t safe.

And even so he can’t quite keep himself from leaning toward Lewis, caught between the instinct to run and the desire to enjoy this little bit of comfort while it’s still on offer. He should have gone home. He’s not fit company.

But when he tries to make his excuses—extricate himself before he does or says something he’ll regret—what comes out instead is: “Thank you for not asking, sir.”

Lewis gives him an assessing look. He’s not just talking about tonight and Lewis knows it. “Figured you’d tell me if you wanted to.” 

James takes a sip of whisky, slouches down into the cushions until he can lean his head against the back of the sofa. These past few weeks have inexorably chipped away at his defenses and there’s not been time to properly shore them up again. He’s barricaded himself in but the ghosts of Crevecoeur have made it through and now he’s stuck in here with them, the bastion become the weak point.

“I don’t want to,” he says, fingers worrying the rim of his glass.

“That’s all right, then.”

“But I might need to.” It’s almost a question and he hates how unsteady his voice sounds. 

“You don’t owe me anything, lad. Your past is yours to keep, none of my business.”

He sighs, takes another sip of whisky. “And if I wanted it to be your business?”

“Then I’d listen.”

James downs the last of the whisky, places the glass on the coffee table and crosses his arms across his chest. He can feel Lewis’ gaze on him. He stares up at the ceiling. It is an inoffensive off-white that contains absolutely nothing to hold anyone’s interest. He keeps staring. Maybe the patterns in the shadows cast by the lamp on the far side of the sofa can show him the way through this.

“My mum she— When Mrs Temple—” James sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair. “It was the summer after my first year away at school. Music scholarship. I’d been so happy… I walked into the barn and she was standing there holding a shotgun to her throat, not far from where Mr Grahame— When she saw me she dropped the gun and walked right past me out the door. She didn’t look at me. Hardly looked at me the rest of the summer, hardly talked to me. I was used to that from Dad, but Mum… She held on for thirteen more years before she finally managed it.”

He takes a deep breath, bites at his thumbnail, continues his careful inspection of the ceiling shadows. He can feel Lewis’ gaze on him.

“While I was at school the next year they moved off the estate. I guess that was Dad’s way of finally trying to do right. He’d been there more than twenty years, he was loyal, only never more to us than to them. But Mum. That was enough where I never was. It was a relief to never have to go back there. To never—” He breaks off. He’s almost there. He’s almost said the words he should have spoken years ago. But it’s harder, not easier, now he’s this close. He lets out a sigh, steels himself to continue.

“The summer I was fourteen I found out my scholarship was funded by Mortmaigne. Someone addressed the paperwork incorrectly, my name instead of Dad’s. That’s when I realised— With us no longer at Crevecoeur what other reason could there be for Mortmaigne to keep funding my school? Unless he paid Dad off by gifting his special, talented son with a scholarship.”

“Special,” Lewis echoes. James nods, takes another deep breath.

“And there he was, still piano lessons in the summer house. I thought once enough time had passed… I thought it would be… different. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be free of it.” His voice sounds small and watery to his own ears but Lewis is still miraculously steady and solid next to him. “I should have said something. I should have made a statement. I tried. I tried to say something. I should have… so many things. But I— I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

He shakes his head, runs a hand over his face, and tries for a calming breath. He has, in quick succession, told his governor things he’s never told anyone. Not even in confession. James slowly tilts his head to the side bracing for the inevitable look of pity on Lewis’ face, but it’s not there. He sees nothing but kindness, genuine kindness, and he’s so thankful his breath comes up short and his eyes well up and he has to look away again.

Lewis’ hand is resting on the cushion between them palm down, non-threatening. James uncrosses his arms and puts his right hand on the cushion next to Lewis’, little fingers almost touching. He looks down at their hands then up at Lewis. Lewis nods once and James moves his hand one inch to the right. Then more. His fingers settle between Lewis’ as if this is something they do. He curls his fingers over, and Lewis turns his hand so they are palm-to-palm, fingers twined together. Lewis seems completely relaxed about that fact that he is holding his sergeant’s hand. Another thing James can’t seem to do.

Lewis gives James’ hand a squeeze. “I said it before and I think it bears repeating: you’re not to blame for any of it.” James wants to believe that is true, but he’s not sure he deserves absolution. Lewis continues as if he’s read James’ mind. “It’s okay to believe it. Give yourself a break for once. If anyone deserves that you do.”

Lewis squeezes his hand again and James lets out a breath that’s all but a sob, startling himself as much a Lewis, pulling their hands apart.

The urge to curl in on himself is almost overwhelming. But he is not having a panic attack. He is not. Saying all that out loud is bad enough without going completely to pieces over it. Lewis’ hand returns, this time resting on his shoulder and then rubbing his back. He breathes, and it works. Air goes in, air goes out, all the pieces click and whir at the right time and in the right places. He is a real boy again. He could stand on his own if he wanted to but he really doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says, searching Lewis’ face for signs that this is too much, that this line they’ve just crossed was a closed border and there’s no hope of return.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, lad.”

“But I shouldn’t— All this— Sir, I’m—” He shakes his head.

“Really. Nothing. You’re all right.”

James is silent for a long time; the tempest has died down, now nothing but a distant dull roar. He feels drained and not a little bit exhausted, yet at the same time, not lighter exactly, but somewhat less encumbered.

“Maybe,” he says and stops resisting the urge to lean into Lewis’ hand. “Getting there.” Lewis continues to rub small circles on his back and James thinks of Lewis’ children, how lucky they are to have this man as their father. And he’s not even envious, only happy for them in a distant, wistful way. He feels cared for. It is decidedly strange but not unwelcome, and he is grateful to Lewis again. Always grateful to Lewis. Someday maybe he will be able to do something to repay all this undeserved kindness.

Minutes tick by, the only sounds their breathing and the whoosh of the occasional late-night car passing on the street, the click and whir of the refrigerator and the heating. 

“Cuppa?” Lewis says eventually, his hand resting on James’ shoulder in a way that should by rights be awkward but isn’t.

“Actually, I um— I think I’d like a bath,” James says. He’s not running away, he does want a bath. The tub in Lewis’ new flat is almost long enough for James to properly fit in, unlike the tiny one in his own flat.

Lewis gives him a small, indulgent smile. “Go on then, you know where the towels are.” And Lewis lets him go. He’s been released with a pat on the back and not so much as a worried glance, after all he’s confessed.

 

Longer than he should have taken—probably long enough for Lewis to wonder if he’s drowned in there, but not long enough for Lewis to go in after him—James emerges from the bathroom wearing Lewis’ dressing gown. He feels a bit ridiculous; too much too skinny leg showing out the bottom. Lewis doesn’t laugh but it’s a near thing.

“I couldn’t face putting them back on,” James says, gesturing toward the bathroom and his shirt and trousers—tainted with the invisible touch of the night’s events—discarded on the floor. As if this is a valid excuse for wearing his boss’ dressing gown unasked.

Lewis nods. “Let me find you something to wear,” he says, and disappears down the hall to his bedroom.

And here James is taking advantage of Lewis' kindness again. He doesn’t mean to do it, but it keeps happening. When Lewis returns he’s got a pair of joggers, an old faded t-shirt, and the spare pillow and blanket James uses when he kips on the couch. 

This time James emerges from the bathroom feeling no less ridiculous but also strangely comforted. Lewis’ clothes are soft and smell of Lewis in some indefinable way that’s more than just his brand of washing powder. The whisky and the glasses have been cleared away and there are two cups of tea on the coffee table. Lewis gets up from the chair when James comes into the room, standing awkwardly with the coffee table between them, like he wants to move closer but isn’t sure if it’s a good idea. As if James is an animal liable to be spooked. He probably is.

“You look knackered,” Lewis says gesturing toward the sofa. “I thought…” Lewis has made up the couch for him—sheets tucked neatly around the cushions and blanket folded at the far end—something he’s never done before. More undeserved kindness. James has, for all intents and purposes, just invited himself to spend the night. He’s got to stop this. Even if Lewis keeps giving it will be too much eventually. For both of them.

But he is bone weary, as if everything he said earlier was what was keeping him going. A life fueled on regret and guilt and now that he’s shared some of it its power is diminished. He is diminished too, just down to reserves.

“I am a bit, yeah.” He steps forward and Lewis steps forward too.

“You also look like you could do with a hug,” Lewis says. James can see that he’s about to take it back as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Embarrassed. And James realises, to his astonishment, that this is exactly what he wants. More kindness he doesn’t deserve but is apparently going to continue to accept.

“That would be— Yes.” He says and steps around the coffee table toward Lewis. And then Lewis’ arms are around him. He is wearing Lewis’ cast off clothes and he is held in Lewis’ arms and maybe, maybe, this is something he can have.

 

He wakes to the sizzle and smell of bacon with a crick in his neck. He’s curled up on Lewis’ sofa, back to the room and knees smashed up against the cushions. Somehow he’s managed a full night’s sleep in an uncomfortable position on the sofa when sleep has eluded him for weeks in the comfort of his own bed.

“Morning,” Lewis says from the kitchen as James works himself slowly to standing, stretching his neck and shoulders.

“Morning,” he replies and is surprised to hear that his voice sounds normal if sleep rough. He feels somewhat hungover, head muzzy, and muzzier still when his brain catches up with him and registers last night. He watches Lewis in the kitchen for signs: of what he’s not exactly sure. That now that Lewis knows, James is tainted. That the knowledge has ruined them. That handholding and a hug and all those unwise words he uttered have opened a rift between them. But he can see no evidence of any of it. Only Lewis frying eggs, and bacon, and tomatoes, and making toast; an immensely comforting domestic scene.

Lewis sets a plate on the table and holds a mug of coffee out in James’ direction; an offering of more than much needed caffeine. James accepts the mug, sips, and takes a seat at the table. Lewis, sat across from him in front of a plate of his own, smiles without looking up.

“Thought you told Lyn you were cutting down on the eggs and bacon?” James says.

“Special occasion.”

“Is it?” This is where it all comes apart, then. Where Lewis, having seen his demons, cuts him loose as too much to deal with. At least he’s getting a decent breakfast before he’s cast off. He braces himself for the inevitable blow. But the blow doesn’t come.

“Off rota on a Sunday,” Lewis says. “Surely that’s cause for a proper breakfast?” 

James was so ready for a dismissal that it’s a moment before he registers what Lewis has actually said.

“Good a reason as any I suppose,” he says after a beat too long. Lewis watches him with a look of kind understanding James is still mostly sure he doesn’t deserve, and then smiles at him, his face open and pleased. James can’t help but smile back. Something has shifted between them, a line has been crossed, but maybe it’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s good. Maybe if Lewis keeps offering he can keep accepting. Maybe that will be all right for both of them.


End file.
